Dawn waits until the door is closed behind them to ask her question. They recongregate a few dozen feet from the door, in front of the painting at Omdurman. Farrah keeps side-eyeing it. The triumph of a bunch of pasty-white Englishmen over Muslim tribesmen probably strikes a bit closer to home if you're a Muslim. Dawn, obviously, is not a Muslim. Or any religion, not even those weird 2nd century Gnostic sects obsessed with the Demiurge or whatever. Although she has thought about it in the past. Maybe it would make her life more exciting.
“You okay, boss?” Dawn asks.
Davison nods. He sucks air in through his teeth.
“I’ve done business with the Saudis before. Before you arrived.”
What was he doing before Jake and I arrived?
“They fucked you over, I assume?”
“Right. Financially, at least. Didn’t want to pay up for dealing with their problems. That stupid triple-I bullshit he’s making isn’t happening.”
“But we stole their Janissary.”
Dawn looks at Davison. Grins. They’re on the same page. C-SPEAR doesn’t give a shit about infrastructure. The first modern Janissaries won Waterloo for Napoleon. With twenty-second century technology and training, who knows what they can do?
Anastasia loudly pulls out a bag of chips – the bag of chips – from one of her blazer’s interior pockets. Loudly crunches a wavy chip between her teeth. Davison pulls out his phone and steps away to either make or take a phone call.
“Do you think I was too direct there?”
“I don’t think we were direct enough,” Fletch replies, finally piping up.
“You do know what that word means, right?” Dawn asks. Just to check.
“Of course. English translation of pedik, which means stupid, moron, idiot, ex-cetera.”
That is, not true in the slightest! But Dawn doesn’t speak enough Russian for this. Dimitri will have to deal with her.
“Um,” Farrah asks, scratching the back of her head underneath a thick mane of hair. The LEDs overhead give it the auburn shimmer from before. She’s gorgeous. Her facial features are all soft and smooth and gentle, her skin has a deep, clear tan, and her figure almost rivals Sophia’s.
“Was all of that, ah, normal?”
Fletch shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“So, does this, um, makeshift parliament function at all?” She talks like Jasmine, gentle and unaggressive. Probably by design.
Fletch absent mindedly rocks back and forth on his heels.
“Not re~ally,” he said, pushing his voice an octave higher halfway through. “Usually we just yell at each other until we vote on something, and then we move on and yell at each other over something else.”
“Two weeks ago Santiago and Witherspoon were about to kill each other because the President wanted to issue new shares.”
“Santiago is, the, ah…”
“Faggy guy, yes,” Anastasia finishes. “I hate him, he looks like he molests people as a hobby.”
“His entire business model revolves around casinos,” Dawn adds. “He’s elbow-deep with organized crime. He’s probably the one who ordered the slaves.”
“Were those slaves the, ah, human trafficking victims?” Farrah asks.
“Yes. Two of them were Janissaries like us,” Dawn answers. “We’re still acclimatizing them. The rest should be in protective custody.” Or they’ve been passed along to their buyers. Can never really be sure with the cops around here.
“What, are they like new cats?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“They are Americans,” Anastasia hisses.
“Wait,” Farrah interrupts. She’s been thinking this through. “The country, the Twin Rivers Republic, is really just a company that owns territory, and if you buy shares in that company, like my benefactor did, you get to sit on that council?”
“yeah pretty much” Eva answers.
“There’s a parliament in Baghdad,” Fletch jumps in. “But they’re ceremonial. They can’t pass legislation without the president, but the president and the council can do it unilaterally.”
“So it’s like a publicly traded East India Company?”
Xiuying might have a new best friend.
“Exactly!” Fletch replies.
Farrah nods, adjusts the collars of her shirt sleeves, and glances sideways at the paintings. Maybe she’s getting the same vibe from them as Dawn is.
“So, C-SPEAR? Never heard of them.”
“It’s, complicated,” Fletch replies. “There is the Coalition of Peace, right? Eighth Coalition, founded after Napoleon’s defeat in, what, 1816, to prevent something like that from happening ever again. Used to be bankrolled by insanely rich nobles until the end of the Second World War, when private industries took over.”
“And SPEAR means, Special, Peoples…” Farrah looks up at the ceiling, hands on her hips, trying to decipher the acronym.
“Special Activities Regiment,” Fletch responds. He’s just so helpful today! “We’re the Levant Division.” He proudly turns and shows off the patch on his backpack, a shield, purple, with a black and gold scorpion on it.
“So you’re just the regional arm of a private military that works on behalf of the aristocratic and capitalist classes of the world?”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
It might be love at first sight.
“That’s, a bit harsh,” Fletch says.
“Yeah that’s exactly it,” Ash responds. At least the member of the aristocratic and capitalist classes of the world is honest about her station.
“So, how does this whole, arrangement work? Besides the whole, ‘if you buy a five percent share you have to let C-SPEAR use one of your Janissaries’ deal.”
“Just like that,” Dawn replies. “I don’t know the specifics.” She looks at Fletch, who does know the specifics.
“The Coalition was the first. We bought our shares straight from the American government. When Davison was promoted, what, eighteen months ago?” He looks to Dawn for confirmation. She nods. “Eighteen months ago. He rewrote the deal. Made it more buyer friendly, more attractive to investors. Gave himself a private army.”
“Jake and I ran interference the whole time,” Dawn admits. “Blew up a few car bombs in out of the way places. Didn’t kill anyone who didn’t deserve it. Held the council hostage until they caved.”
“And does America still have shares in the company?”
“Three and a half percent, if I remember right,” Ash replies. Money girl knows the score. “Colonel Witherspoon – guy in the fatigues, had his kid with him-”
“The hot one?”
Dawn wants to vomit.
“I wouldn’t know, I’m gay,” Ash admits and half the team stifle laughs. Anastasia doesn’t get hers under control and she cackles uproariously. “But he represents America’s share. That’s Apex’s job, or one of them. Their whole business model is graft and government security contracts.”
“But that’s every mercenary company now,” Farrah replies. “I assume this place functions, in spite of itself.”
“It makes rich people richer, so yeah. Works perfectly,” Ash replies.
Footsteps echo down the hall, and Davison walks back towards the group. Hopefully Farrah got all the important details because Davison is the final test. If she missed anything she can ask Xiuying.
“Have you met everyone formally, Miss Aziz?”
Farrah smiles at him, does a little curtsey. “al-Aziz, please. Farrah al-Aziz.”
She sticks her hand out and Davison grasps and shakes it.
“My apologies. Scott Davison – you can call me Scott Davidson once.”
They go around the circle. Everyone…
“Anastasia Katsiarynovich Solovyova.”
…gives their full…
“evelyn jackson”
…names with a…
“Ashara Wolfe.”
…handshake. Very…
“Thomas Fletcher. Call me Fletch.”
…formal.
Farrah sticks out her hand in front of Dawn, expecting a repeat of the previous five normal people. Dawn is not a normal person and gawks at her hand instead. Does she know what she’s supposed to do here?
“You’re supposed to shake,” Anastasia whisp–
“I know what I’m supposed to do, I just, can’t,” Dawn admits, speaking more to Farrah than anyone else. “I, I don’t know. Something like a neuro-psychological condition. Something.”
Farrah looks at her, concerned for her new teammate’s health. She gently tugs on a lock of her hair, which falls in waves past her shoulders.
“Do you…um, need help? Professional?”
Dawn shrugs.
“I’m a Janissary. I never, you’know, gave it any thought.”
She turns to Davison.
“She never asks for help.”
Farrah turns back to Dawn. Then Dawn’s eyebrows raise,
“Oh!”
Like she’s snapping out of a trance.
“It’s good that you’re here. It’s just, you’know, you’re the third new addition in the past, I don’t know…”
“Twenty-four hours?” Farrah guesses.
“Fifteen, give or take a few,” Anastasia answers.
Farrah nods understandingly.
“But you’re good, right? You know the score?” Anastasia asks.
“You’re not fresh out of the academy, we assume,” Dawn adds.
Farrah warmly smiles. “Oh, no, no. I’m used to this. Twenty-six. Eight years of this, four to go.” She seems very cherry despite the circumstances. Glass half-full kind of person. When Dawn gets to halfway in a year and change, she’s throwing a big party for her and Jake. Not quite tradition, but they did it for Anastasia not too long ago.
Dawn pulls out her phone. If she can’t shake hands…
“Here. I’m a schizophrenic mess, but I can use a phone well enough. This should be enough.”
Farrah pulls out her own phone, like she’s on the same page. The newest member of the team taps her phone against Dawn’s, and both vibrate. ‘Farrah al-Aziz has been added to the Group Chat’ is what the message displayed on Dawn’s screen says. Five other cellphones vibrate or chime in each others’ respective pockets.
Dawn turns to the chief.
“So. Where to start?”
“Got a lot on our plate,” he admits. “You said Xiuying is looking into the two kids, and into Khanpasha Mateev, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I say go to the ship, next. We can’t kidnap and torture Randall Tyler, but we can do the next best thing.”
“He seemed very apprehensive about it,” Anastasia adds.
“Southern Seas Corporation is part of some trade consortium of shipping companies. Most closely tied to the New Venice Corporation,” Ash replies. Then she yawns.
“How much sleep did you get last night?” Fletch asks.
“Enough.”
“Twenty minutes isn’t ‘enough.’”
“Someone’s gotta update all the spreadsheets.”
Ash yawns again, which gets everyone but Farrah yawning. She’s on her phone. Then everyone’s buzzes, except for Davison. Can’t let the boss, the old fogey, into the cool kids’ group chat.
Dawn pulls out her phone and reads a message. Farrah’s sent a link to the chat. Chat etiquette says that you send them to the DATA chat, but its her first time so they'll let it slide. It’s an article translated from Italian, detailing the connections between the New Venice Naval Transpiration Company and the Sicilian Nova Cosa. The mafia hasn’t exactly gone legitimate, its just that every other company just stooped down to their level. They’ve finally made it, and without trying all that hard either.
“So, where do we start?” Farrah asks and her phone vibrates again.
Dawn’s phone pops up with an image; a cream-coloured dachshund looking at the camera, terribly concerned, with white block letters overlaid upon the image:
THERE BETTER NOT BE ANY HOMOSEXUALS HERE
Sent by ‘Dr. Slurs, Ph.D.’ Anastasia. What a good fucking username. Dawn could've brainstormed for years before coming up with that. Instead, she's just 'I_SHOOT_COPS_4_FUN' which isn't even half as good.
A cackle emerges from Ash’s mouth. Dawn feels her mouth twist into a crooked smile. Something about that fucking dog.
Phones vibrate again. ‘coindexter’ responds…
Hey what up
Which is then followed by another image of that same dog, the text overlaid saying…
BIT FRUITY
Dr. Slurs, Ph.D. strikes again. Farrah looks at her phone, bemused but absolutely fucking baffled.
“Welcome to the team,” Dawn tells her. “Wanna get lunch?”
“Oh!” Anastasia pipes up. “That Mexican place that just opened on Seventh! Dimitri says they do these amazing pork tacos-”
“Uh,” Farrah quietly interrupts.
“What?”
“I’m, uh, Muslim. No pork.”
“And I’m Jewish, you’know,” Ash adds.
“So am I! Who gives a shit?” Anastasia asks back. From all Dawn knows, she isn’t lying. She did go to the King Solomon Academy in Tel Aviv. Highly prestigious, highly psychotic. The apartheid state isn’t going to let in anyone who doesn’t meet their preferred criteria. The daughter of a new, Belarussian immigrant seemed perfect, at least back then. The reasons for her transfer to Saint Petersburg and its Imperial Russian Academy are still a mystery.
The small Russian turns, leads the way. Farrah looks at Ash. Ash and Fletch have to go back to the meeting, so the Wolfe scion just shrugs. As the two employees return to the council room and more fucking yelling echoes out of it, the two Janissaries follow Anastasia, catching up quickly. A 5’1 person can only move so fast.
Dawn looks at Davison.
“Where’s Tech?”
Dawn shrugs. He should be at the Take-10 bistro. Whether he actually is or not is uncertain.
“Gave him the address. Should be talking to my friends right now.”
And as if she summoned it into existence via a lathe of heaven, her phone buzzes. She shows it to Davison, who shrugs.
“I’ve gotta get back to work. Have fun at lunch,” he says, and walks back towards the doors.
“Ready for some fuckin’ economics?” Dawn asks.
“God, hell no!” Davison replies, a laugh in his voice. “But that’s what I’m paid the big bucks for.”
Dawn shakes her head. He gets six figures. Maybe seven. She gets nothing. Ashara Wolfe’s credit card is a poor substitute for agency, at least for her. Even with the leash that Davison gives. Other Janissaries aren’t as fortunate as her. She wonders what Permanent Solutions Security’s plans for Jasmine and Cyrus were.
Her phone keeps ringing. Best not to keep Tecumseh waiting. He’s probably got something tremendously important to say. She leans against the wall and answers.